


Shelter

by JestersTear



Series: Broken and Rebuilt [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aftermath of Emotional Manipulation, Angst, Bisexual Cullen Rutherford, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Longing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:34:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22079290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JestersTear/pseuds/JestersTear
Summary: Following the events of Tempest, Dorian is quite certain Cullen would prefer their paths never crossed again. However, the Maker's sense of humour remains intact, as does His penchant for atmospheric phenomena that interfere with Dorian's' life. He really should have known better.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Cullen Rutherford
Series: Broken and Rebuilt [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1005900
Comments: 5
Kudos: 60





	Shelter

It’s all dreadfully cliché, really, Dorian mulls over a glass of Aggregio Pavali. The handsome, wholesome Southern Chantry boy who flirted with him so earnestly that Dorian couldn’t help but make a move, who was then so consumed by the guilt and shame of their illicit tryst that he couldn’t even bring himself to enjoy it, and who could barely wait to discard Dorian once the deed was done…

It’s not Tevinter all over again only because there are no men like Cullen Rutherford there - sincere, stalwart, dedicated to the greater good and yet so endearingly fumbly at times. In Tevinter the seduction would have been very thorough, the crowning jewel of a deliberate dance. In Tevinter there would have been no way that whoever Dorian had chosen to spend a few hours with would forego his own pleasure. In Tevinter there was no one who would have knelt in front of Dorian so promptly - at all, really - if their social status were as superior as Cullen’s clearly is to the Altus’ here in the south.

In Tevinter no man would ever waste so much time pleasuring Dorian if they weren’t, at the same time, being given pleasure in return unless they had an ulterior motive - and they _always_ had ulterior motives.

The way Cullen took him in his mouth - so readily, so eagerly, so… There has never been anyone who’s dedicated quite so much attention and energy to Dorian, especially not so close to a door where any number of Cullen’s men could have knocked at any moment. Cullen is lucky that Dorian is so very practiced at reigning himself in, at not making a sound. A lesser man would have moaned his appreciation and damned it all to the Void in that moment. And, _oh_ , how Dorian had wanted to moan.

And then when Dorian finished Cullen kissed him where no one ever had _after_ sex was over. Tender. Vulnerable.

For an intelligent man Dorian was disgustingly quick to fall into the trap of thinking that this time it would be different, he thinks with contempt. And then all Cullen could do was look for the blighted key.

Therein lies the cliché: Dorian doesn’t manage to play by the rules even when they’re this simple, even when he’s known them his entire life. Seduction, sex, exit stage left. Rinse and repeat with a different character. No room for pesky complications such as _feelings_. He’s usually the only one feeling them anyway.

Yet with Cullen… It’s been years since he thought the man of the hour might be more - not since Rilienus - and that he allowed himself to believe _Cullen_ would so much as invite him up to his loft to finish what they started, well. Out of the two of them it’s beginning to look like the Commander might not be the painfully naive one.

He just wishes some pieces of the puzzle fit better together. Dorian has never had a puzzle that didn’t fit, and yet Cullen’s words - ‘ _Just… Know that it’s not what you think, and that it pains me more than I will ever be able to express, losing your regard._ ’ - seem to somehow not make any sense in light of what came after, of the clear dismissal that was Cullen opening the door to get rid of Dorian even before Dorian’s seed had fully settled in the Commander’s stomach.

 _Kaffas_ , he’s spent too long thinking about this already. It’s over. Done. It was good, it was intense, it was breathtaking but it. Is. Done. If there is one thing Dorian Pavus knows how to do it’s how to make an exit, be it from a country, a tower with a whole in the roof or a chess arrangement. He will not be an unwanted reminder that Cullen is too unfailingly polite to get rid of.

Besides.

He has a new project now. From a purely academic point of view it would be fascinating to create a barrier for Cullen’s loft that would be self-sustaining, or rather that sustained itself by feeding off of Skyhold’s latent ambient magic, never needing to be recast yet still protecting the tower from adverse weather. It’s not any desire to do something nice for Cullen, truly, it’s simply that Dorian loves a good magical riddle and he excels at them.

Solas might be the man to help with the design, given his knowledge of the castle. And then, once it is done, Dorian will find some way to have someone mention it to the Commander and cast it without mentioning its provenance, merely for Dorian’s own personal validation. It would be a shame for that kind of research and effort to go untested.

* * *

Weeks fly by while he’s absorbed in his new project - he doesn’t even feel sad to miss his once regular chess dates - and Solas is a fascinating research partner, if appallingly lacking in style. Then one day it’s done. There’s nothing else to research, it just needs to be cast to prove that it can be, and Dorian hasn’t yet worked that particular kink out, of how to get Cullen’s permission without ever talking to the man, so he puts it ouf his mind for the time being.

He goes to the tavern with his newly regained extra time and spends a good ten minutes just flirting with the Bull until Cullen - who he hadn’t even noticed was there - all but tramples him on his way out.

Honestly, is it too much to ask that, after the sex, they’d retain their easy friendship? Apparently so, Dorian thinks with irritation before deciding to put yet this one more thing out of his mind and turning the full force of his charm back onto the Iron Bull.

He doesn’t end that night by riding the Bull. He could have, he thinks, but his mood has soured considerably after seeing how Cullen won’t even look at him, and he has a reputation to uphold. No doubt if he were to share the Bull’s bed and - Maker forbid! - give a less than stellar performance the others might think a rather incompetent demon has replaced him. He’ll give it another shot soon.

* * *

It’s quite frankly beginning to be ridiculous, the number of times Cullen flees places Dorian didn’t even know he was in to begin with. And these delightful exercises often come complete with their Andraste-appointed Herald appearing out of nowhere to burn holes in the back of Dorian’s skull, for whatever reason. With such avoidance on one side and ill will on the other the Altus is feeling positively homesick.

Today he’s simply not in the mood to face - or not face, in Cullen’s case - either one of them, so he foregoes the so-called emergency meeting in the Great Hall that he’s summoned to with a knock on the door. He’d have to have gotten ready at an obscene time - why, he’d barely managed to open an eyelid when the scout had come knocking on all the bedrooms, let alone go through all the beauty rituals that make him his fabulous self.

His thoughts derail for a bit thinking on that particular turn of phrase, and how most people in the South would shudder and equate his use of “rituals” to blood magic and demon-summoning. As if he would need to resort to that when he’s already quite this magnificent, he thinks wryly.

Either way, he’s certain the emergency isn’t Corypheus-related or the meeting would have happened in the War room and would not have included every random noble staying in Skyhold at the moment. No doubt he’ll hear all about it in an hour or two, when he returns from the tavern, but right now he’s going to take advantage of the fact that everyone is in the Great Hall to sneak out and have his breakfast there, away from mostly everyone. It’s a good thing his research with Solas has shown him a few of Skyhold’s secrets, namely ways of getting in and out of the castle without announcing his intent to its denizens at large.

He almost walks right back in the minute he sets foot outside of the castle and is greeted by the temperature.

The air is cold, below freezing; the sky is low, and the colour… It’s not gray or white with clouds, but a heavy almost dark blue. One of the most beautiful hues he’s ever seen, really, and unlike any tone he’s yet to see a sky take. Add to that the eerie calm in the air, the silence so thick with it, and he wonders if this isn’t some bizarre dream. But, eerie or not, he’s a mage; he recognises the Fade when he’s in it, and he’s not in it. A quick strengthening of the warming spell he uses on himself - frankly, how did these people imagine he’d ever stay warm otherwise? - has him off on his peaceful breakfast quest.

The Herald’s Rest is closed. Never, in all his time in Skyhold, has he seen the tavern closed at breakfast time, and he suddenly thinks that there must have been some emergency factor in the emergency meeting after all, because Skyhold itself, with the exception of the main castle, seems very much deserted. He should take it as a warning sign and head back, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever see another moment like this, so peaceful and enticing. Even his own footfalls barely make a sound in the thick layer of snow blanketing the ground. He climbs the stairs over to the battlements to get a better view and walks a few paces just enjoying the atmosphere, for once his mind not on Cullen.

Ah.

He’s ruined it now, hasn’t he? Time to head back.

It hits him out of nowhere as he’s walking the ramparts. One minute the sky is peaceful and blue, the next snow is falling in droves, a sudden gale whipping around him so strongly it’s all he can do not to be taken by it, and he can no longer see the colour of the sky. When he tries to walk back to Skyhold he realises he can’t even see the edge of the balustrade - all he sees is white. He tries a barrier, but there’s so much wind and snow assaulting it that it fizzles out too quickly to be of any use. _Kaffas_ , the emergency meeting must have been about this, and he’s going to be buried or thrown off the battlements if he doesn’t make it back soon. For the first time ever he wishes he were a Force mage instead of a Necromancer - he could use some grounding.

Where once Skyhold was silent now all he can hear is the howling winds coming to drag him to his doom. With great effort he takes one step, praying he’s walking in the right direction, then another, and suddenly he’s thrown violently by an unforgiving gust, scrambling desperately for purchase on a rampart he can’t even see, and it crosses his mind that as far as deaths go this one is particularly undignified.

Just as he topples helplessly from the side of the battlement something unseen grabs his ankle and pulls him. He’d be terrified if he weren’t so grateful.

He’s thrown back to the ground by his rescuer - or assailant -, noticing that a vaguely humanoid shape is attached to the hand that still clutches him, but he can’t, for the life of him, make out a face despite how close the other person is next to him on the ground.

“Crawl!” is shouted frantically in his ear, one of the few words he can make out. “…almost there. Not too close to the ground… get swallowed by the snow.”

… Is that _Cullen_? It certainly seems so. The Commander grabs his wrist before letting go of his ankle and then they’re both crawling, Dorian on his hands and knees, Cullen using an elbow instead of a hand so he won’t let go of Dorian, in an unknown direction. Snow is falling so rapidly it seems they’re climbing instead of crawling, and breathing is a nigh impossible task with the previously fallen snow being lifted by the wind in a flurry. Dorian can only hope Cullen can see something other than white.

It can’t have been more than ten paces before he’s being ushered into safety, but it might have been ten miles for how long it’s taken them. Dorian’s heart is racing madly from his close encounter with death, yet it’s still not over.

Cullen had the presence of mind to leave a large rock jamming open one of his doors, lest it close on them, which was brilliant thinking in Dorian’s book. Not quite so brilliant is the fact that this portion of the Commander’s tower is now filled with snow and closing that door is a task for an entire dreadnought of qunari, rather than for two measly humans. Dorian casts a controlled fire spell on just a specific portion of the snow outside while Cullen gets rid of the rock and finally they manage to close the door and breathe in relative safety. While Dorian is being an absolute marvel and freezing the snow that remains inside, so he can drop a solid lump in a pot above the fireplace to melt away from the carpet, Cullen chooses to give him an earful.

“What were you thinking, going out in the middle of a Frostbacks Blizzard? Was the warning not clear enough for you? Do you have a death wish?” Cullen looks as though there’s nothing he’d like more than to grab Dorian and shake him in his frustration. “You could have been _killed_ out there. You very nearly were!”

Dorian raises an eyebrow, trying to behave as if he has not a hair out of place. “A Frostbacks Blizzard, you say? That monstrosity outside has a name?”

“Were you not in the meeting? Honestly, to ignore such a dire warning and go out in what has to be the foulest–”

A thump and a crack stop him midsentence and he sighs.

“The boards on the roof must be cracking under the snow’s weight. I had planned on closing the loft’s hatch if it came to that, but now that you’re here… I don’t suppose you’d be willing to cast one of your barriers on it again?”

Well. The perfect opportunity to test his work, gift-wrapped by a vengeful Maker in a lethal snowstorm. Who is he to decline such divine an offering?

“After being rescued from certain death? It seems like the very least I could do. A normal one won’t do under these conditions, but you’re in luck: I’ve done a bit of research - would you like me to make it permanent?”

“Can such a thing be done?”

Dorian is about to embark on a passionate description of the magic involved when a second ominous thump reminds him that brevity is the soul of wit. He settles for “it cannot, and yet I’ve gone and done it anyway, Commander.”

The loft is pitch black with the boards covering the roof - Cullen wasn’t as reckless as to light a candle when wood might come crashing down at any minute, snow or no snow - so Dorian casts a few mage lights that flutter in the darkness. He tries very hard not to dwell on the ‘locked in a tower alone with a handsome man while a storm rages outside and tiny romantic lights are scattered in a room with a bed’ factor, while Cullen seems to have no difficulty ignoring it altogether.

Not a moment too soon his permanent barrier is cast and no longer feeding off his mana. He’ll need to inform Solas of their success, maybe extend it to a few of Skyhold’s key areas, such as the Undercroft. It’s a good thing he’s here too, or Cullen’s shoddy work on his roof - seriously, who prepares for a Frostbacks Snow Storm of Doom with a few boards and nails? - would have given out within the hour.

Now that the adrenaline has ebbed off he notices a few other things that are obvious even in this dim lighting, like the deeper-than-usual bags under the Commander’s eyes, or the way his lips have a purple-bluish tinge and he’s trying very hard not to shiver. His fur mantle is soaked with melting snow and he’s wearing a sort of pyjama underneath, not a scrap of armour in sight. Of course. The man went out into the blizzard to rescue Dorian when he clearly hadn’t planned to entertain company for the day. He was already barricaded in safety; he risked death to go save the faceless idiot toppling from the battlements.

Void take him and his self-sacrificing Southern Chantry boy tendencies.

“ _Kaffas_ , Commander, are you going hypothermic on me?” His hands emanate a powerful warmth on instinct, warmer than on the day of the tryst that ended their friendship - what Dorian wouldn’t give to have it back - as he comes closer and once again warms the Commander up without touching him. It’s only halfway through that he realises he divested the other man of his fur mantle in one swift motion, the better to dry him, without even asking.

Oops.

Cullen seems to be suspended in a time rift, lips slightly parted, eyes glazed open, stiff as a board.

“So, a meeting, you say? Could I trouble you for the particulars of what was discussed?” he asks nonchalantly in the hope of breaking some of the tension. It works a litle too well as anger colours the Commander’s formerly entranced posture.

“Maker’s breath, you didn’t even go, did you? What possessed you to do such a thing? Weren’t you warned?”

“I fancied a lie-in.” He sounds too petulant to his own ears. “What’s so wrong with a man wanting some peace and quiet with his breakfast?”

“It was an _emergency_ meeting, not a request for tea and biscuits,” Cullen lets out, exasperated.

“Well if I had known– wait. How did you get back to your tower so soon then?”

Cullen looks sheepish, his voice an indistinct mumble under his breath, as he turns so Dorian can dry and warm up his back.

“I’m sorry, Commander, what was that? You’ll have to speak up.”

“Iwasn’tinit.”

“What? Oh, this is rich! Not in the mood for tea and biscuits, Commander?”

“Don’t compare the two situations,” the fire is back in his eyes, and how a human being can whip their head back so swiftly without suffering whiplash is a mystery to Dorian. “I already knew what was being discussed.”

“Oh?”

“We talked about it yesterday in the War Room. We notified everyone who lives outside the castle last night, to come to the meeting this morning and pack a few essentials - the troops, the mages, the scouts, everyone. I knew if I showed up this morning I’d have to stay in the main building for the duration of the blizzard, and I didn’t… I didn’t want to spend three days in such a crowded castle.”

“ _Three days_?”

He deems Cullen sufficiently warm and extinguishes the spell, not bothering to hide his frustration. If only he hadn’t had to go looking for peace and quiet he’d have spent the next three days with no further inconvenience than the inability to go outside; instead he’s going to be trapped with Cullen and his one bed, no tub and Maker knows what rations masquerading as food. Owing him a life debt, no less, and knowing the Commander would love nothing more than to avoid him altogether. He’s going to have to find a way to co-exist peacefully and be the perfect non-imposing guest for the duration of their confinement.

“Three days is the average a Frostbacks Blizzard lasts for. Some have been known to last longer, but it’s very rare and… Your lip is bleeding.”

“What?” Dorian runs his tongue over his bottom lip and, sure enough, the coppery flavour of blood is there, as well as a slight bump. He must have bit down on it at some point during his near-fall or rescue.

“Your lip,” Cullen repeats, coming slightly closer, “I’m afraid that may have happened when I knocked you down outside. My apologies, but there was no time–”

“By all means, Commander, if you feel responsible for it do feel free to kiss it better.”

 _Fasta vass_ , his mouth has apparently not gotten the memo on being non-confrontational. He expects Cullen will blush and turn away - or worse yet, that he’ll try to punch Dorian in the face, and at that thought the mage shifts his posture so he’s ready for it if that’s how this will play out. Cullen has never shown any violent tendencies, but it won’t be the first time a once-lover has turned on Dorian to protect his own masculinity after the fact. It’s going to break Dorian a little, to have Cullen react like that now.

Except Cullen doesn’t react in any of the ways that Dorian anticipated.

The Commander’s eyes widen and dart from Dorian’s own eyes to his mouth and back again, lips slightly parted, tongue sneaking out to wet said lips without him even appearing to notice. He doesn’t seem offended or embarrassed, he seems… He seems to be asking permission. Dorian should stay quiet and avoid a potentially bloody nose in case he’s reading this wrong, but he’s never been the cautious type.

“Well? Are you going to kiss it better,” he challenges in a sultry tone, looking straight into wide amber eyes, “or just stand there looking?”

Cullen walks into his personal space, his steps deliberate, his breathing laboured, every movement heavy with intent. The tension is nigh unbearable. Then, just as deliberately - agonisingly slowly - he places both hands on Dorian’s face and leans in to kiss him on the mouth. No, not on his mouth, his _lip_. His bottom lip and only his bottom lip. Cullen lavishes it with attention, kisses it, caresses it with his tongue, nips it slightly with his teeth and, for minutes on end, doesn’t stray from that objective.

It’s ridiculous, really. Dorian has had mind blowing sex on several occasions, some of it with highly skilled professionals who took great pride in their work. Why is he weak-kneed now, then, his heart racing faster than when facing a dragon in combat, at a kiss on a single lip? Utterly ridiculous.

He pulls away slightly even as he wraps an arm around Cullen’s waist so he won’t get the wrong impression. “My other lip is feeling jealous, Commander”.

Cullen kisses him on both lips at last. It’s the damnedest thing, the way the former templar breathes in through the mouth and then exhales when they kiss fully. It’s shaky and soft but so ladden with meaning - as if Cullen is deeply relieved, or as if he’s on the verge of tears, or taking a breath for the first time after being deprived of oxygen for so long.

Dorian must be projecting. Kissing has never been like this with anyone before, not even with Rilienus; he’s the one feeling those things, not Cullen. But then if he doesn’t let his mouth run away with him and doesn’t screw this up he has three days of this - there will be no escape from this tower with that bit of Void masquerading as a snow storm out there anyway. It would be more prudent to break it off now - he already knows that later it will be that much harder - but a choice between three days of bliss or three days of impossible-to-avoid awkwardness? That’s no choice at all.

Oh. _Oh_. Cullen snakes his fingers through Dorian’s hair, deepens the kiss and Dorian can’t think anymore, can’t reason, can’t do anything except stand there and enjoy it. There’s no one coming to interrupt them for three days and they have all the time in the world.

It is a while before they come up for air and, when they finally do, Dorian feels shaken from more than the physical aspect of this. Cullen is going to be his undoing.

“Shall we take this somewhere more comfortable than standing up, Commander,” he asks in a husky voice, already turning towards the bed to prevent Cullen from seeing too much in his eyes. He fears he’s making a fool out of himself when the other man doesn’t immediately follow.

“Cullen,” the former templar replies with a sort of vulnerable finality in his tone that takes Dorian’s breath away, “ _please_. My name is Cullen.”

Dorian can’t help but turn back; when their eyes meet again Cullen looks incredibly fragile, yet there’s a quiet dignity to it. The Altus feels as if… as if he’s seeing _Cullen_ for the first time, and one wrong move will erase him from existence, replace him with the Commander for good.

One, two, three steps and he has Cullen in his arms again. He places his curved index finger under the other man’s chin, to coax him into a kiss, and it ends up being tender when he thought he was going for seductive. He grazes the former templar’s cheek with his knuckles as he says “Cullen, then. Shall we take this somewhere more comfortable, _Cullen_?”

There’s a slight hitch in Cullen’s softly murmured ‘yes’ - Dorian has never met anyone with more expressive breathing, he thinks flippantly. It’s disturbing that he finds even that endearing.

 _Kaffas_. He should never have tested the waters with repressed Southern Chantry men; it hadn’t occurred to him that they could run quite this deep, and now he thinks he might drown in them.

The bed is just a few paces away but they take their time getting there, kissing, Dorian helping them both shed their clothes along the way. Cullen is a golden vision of perfection and Dorian can’t help but think the Maker must not be so wrathful a god, if He’s granted him the opportunity to see the Commander naked. He steps out of his last undergarment just before his legs hit the bed and he sits on it, lightly pulling Cullen’s hand - when did they intertwine their fingers? - so the other man will follow.

Cullen’s face looks more naked than his body - naked desire, naked vulnerability, naked _yearning_ , all openly displayed by the wisp lights for Dorian to see - as he settles above Dorian. And then he opens his mouth to say the most unbelievable thing:

“Tell me how to please you.”

 _Fuck_. Even in his fantasies he’s never been able to conjure up something like this. This chiseled amber god - this _naked_ chiseled amber god -, all taut muscles and intensity, asking him how best to please him.

“We have three days, Cullen,” he attempts to salvage what’s left of his nonchalance, “I’m quite sure we’ll be able to find a number of ways to please each other.” There. That’s all the easy confidence he can muster when he’s this flustered. Thankfully, that’s still quite a bit.

“ _Please_ ,” there’s that sharp plea again, in that earnest tone that makes Dorian feel like _he’s_ the one helplessly exposed by it, “I want… I need to know what I could try… What you would like-”

Dorian brings his face down for a kiss to silence him. It’s as good a way as any other to deflect from the weight Cullen’s words are having on him. No one - _no one_ \- has ever cared this much about Dorian’s likes and dislikes and it… It… _Kaffas_ , how is he supposed to go back to being who he was, to rebuilding the walls that keep him sane enough to function, after three days of this? It’s blatantly unfair of Cullen to put Dorian through this, he thinks, disgruntled.

Cullen lowers his entire body atop Dorian, shuddering everywhere their skin meets, and continues to kiss him until Dorian’s capacity for reasoning is but a distant memory. Dorian thinks he’s escaped the half-formed questions that crush his chest in a vice, but Cullen is relentless.

“Dorian? How… Tell me what would please you?”

“It would please me if you would stop asking and just had your wicked way with me, Commander,” Dorian says in a tone that is far too rushed to be seductive, desperate to move away from this devastating topic. He wishes he’d have been more careful in his choice of words when he sees the sadness that settles in the other man’s eyes at the use of his title. He gentles his voice and holds Cullen’s face in his hands gingerly, not used to having any inclination - or opportunity - to engage in displays of tenderness.

“And it would please me if, later, you’d let me have my wicked way with you as well, _Cullen_. In fact I daresay it would please me a great deal if we both had our wicked ways with one another as often as possible for the duration of our confinement. We wouldn’t want to waste a perfectly good atmospheric nightmare, now, would we?”

Cullen lets out a breath that could be a laugh. “No, I suppose we wouldn’t,” he says, and then resumes the very serious task of kissing Dorian.


End file.
